


sanguis vita est

by karnsteins



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: (but like the movie: no assault will be described. so just count it as a mention.), (technically canon compliant of immortan and the wives background), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Gang Violence, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4313328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karnsteins/pseuds/karnsteins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blood is life.</p><p>(Or: Max donates blood to Nux. Nux responds in the most Nux way possible: by showing his gratitude by bugging the hell out of Max.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i. homecoming

As a cop, Max Rockatanksy has seen and done a lot of things in his time, from the more horrific murders this side of Sydney, to the more mundane aspects of coffee and piling paperwork.

Still, it's rather impressive with how deeply surprised and damn near disturbed he is when he comes home to find that the normally plain--bordering on neglected--house he's kept all these years has been transformed. Where the yard was a mess of plants, a few overturned stones, and a manageable enough path to walk to the porch, has been mowed neatly, trimmed, and there are even flowers freshly planted. The mailbox, rickety for years, has been replaced, the numbers almost fresh, and to his complete consternation, someone has put a birdbath on the furthermost corner of the lawn.

Stunned, Max checks the address again, looks at the house closer. The pistol in its holster seems heavier much more there as he tries to figure out what the fuck is going on, if it was one of his co-workers or some community project he'd have missed.

More than that, as he begins to pick out the details of the house, of how clean the outside windows are, of the way that the porch had clearly been cleaned with care, Max is torn between bewilderment, anger, and sheer goddamn confusion.

He goes for instinct, grasping his gun, handling it as he makes his way around the yard. If someone had mowed the lawn, if they had done all this, they probably had to be out back.

Of all things, he isn't expecting some wiry, tall, bald boy to be hauling a bag of leaves towards him. He looks like he's struggling to do it, coated in sweat, dirt and grime. "'Ey!" He brings up his gun, still more angry than confused. 

"The hell are you doing?" The boy looks up, and that's when Max recognizes his face: it's the boy from two weeks ago, lips and cheek still scarred up.


	2. ii. two weeks back: nightcall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sounds of an ambulance is still discernible in the background as Furiosa says, “You aren’t. I’m calling about something else though, Max.” The way she says his name instead of Rockatansky has him sitting up in his bed further, almost instantly alert.

It’s three-thirty a.m. when the call comes, the light filling up the room, buzzing insistently on the bedside.

 

Max isn’t asleep; he’s almost never asleep at this time of night, between the insomnia and the nightmares that accompany him. Furiosa knows that, of course, as she was the only one who’d ever call at this hour. Groaning, he shifts in the bed (away from Jessie’s side), his voice gruff but not surprised when he picks up the call, “‘m fine.”

 

The sounds of an ambulance is still discernible in the background as Furiosa says, “You aren’t. I’m calling about something else though, Max.” The way she says his name instead of Rockatansky has him sitting up in his bed further, almost instantly alert. That tone of voice, steely and terse is something he hasn’t heard since they met all those years ago on the Road. There was only one person who could give Furiosa that voice, that simmering anger.  “There’s been an incident with the War Boys. A bad one.” She doesn’t have to add that there’s always something going on with the War Boys now; Immortan keeps them wrecking havoc more than anything else ever since the Escape. It doesn’t make it any better, Max’s hand digging into the sheets in dislike, teeth setting on edge. “The hospital, they’ve been stretched thin and today was just… it’s bad. They’re overflowing from the fights here and they need a healthy donor for this one. They’re calling everyone they can, but we need you.”

 

Max could ask her why she wants to save one of those War Boys, but considering the memory of Ace, of Furiosa’s days with them, he decides not to. It wouldn’t matter anyway; they both trust each other. She wouldn’t call without a real need, and neither would he.

 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s given blood, anyway. Being benched, pushed to do paperwork instead of actually helping people out, it’s the least he can do.

 

“Which floor?” He pushes the covers away, reaching for the damned brace beside the bed where he’d left it hours ago.

 

“Three,” she says, the relief in her voice palpable. The sirens fill up the silence as he straps the brace on before she says, “I’ll meet you at the door.”

 

The smile on his face is a small one.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fixed the way this displays chapters.


	3. iii. two weeks back: giving back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Splendid who says, “Mr. Rockatansky, we’re ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slow tread but we'll get there. this might have ten parts.

It’s three-thirty when Max comes to the Vulvani Hospital. His bad leg is aching something fierce as he comes out of his truck, but it's nothing that he can't stand. The doctor always recommends a cane and like always, Max ignores it. He pushes inside of the hospital easy enough, nodding his weathered face at the front desk, taking his time to sign his name. He can already hear the murmurs inside and out of his head: too many, need more rooms, can’t believe this has happened again, maxmaxmax.

 

Shutting it out requires pain. The most he can do is dig his fingers into his palm as he waits for the elevator.

 

The lobby always makes him uncomfortable and off of his feet, thinking of how many times he’s had to wait on bad news. It’s a little fucked up, how he’s so much more comfortable when he’s giving blood alone. At least, it isn’t so bad today, when he knows he can help someone.

 

The ride on the elevator is silent, to his relief. Of course, when the door opens on three, it’s the opposite: loud, bustling, full of people both walking and in gurneys. It doesn’t take much for him to put it together, between the sight of leather jackets, smell of gasoline and more than one shout of I’m not going, Immortan said I am awaited!

 

Gang violence. Turf wars.

 

“Max,” Furiosa’s voice pulls his eyes away from the movement all around him, focusing on her tall, steady form, short hair and terse smile to go with it. Well, terse to some. Welcoming to him, as he limps out to join her.

 

She doesn’t have to say thank you. All he does is fall in line with a gruff question, “Who’s it for?”

 

“We don’t have a sure name on him yet,” she runs a hand through her hair, looking tired. Sometimes he envies that she can still be on the force in any capacity. Sometimes, he wonders if she should join him on the bench. “War boys are loyal to Immortan. They still see me as a traitor. He hasn’t woken up yet, and if we can’t get to him in time, he won’t. But he’s AB negative. They don’t have a lot of options, and not with all these boys in the hospital.”

 

Max’s head bobs, mouth set in a line.  She doesn’t have to add anymore. Immortan was given to rages now that he was slowly being destabilized. “Where is he?”

 

“327,” she points her mechanical fingers toward the room, picking up the pace. “The staff knows you, they’ve got everything set up. Splendid made sure of it.”

 

The mention of Splendid sends the tiny reminder of Jessie up in his head, of their boy. He keeps going. When they get to the room, Furiosa grows tenser, opening the door quietly.

 

What inside makes Max’s hand tense, almost sends him in a rage. There’s a boy there, in the bed. Tall, taller than him but thin almost to the point of breaking. The chalk from Immortan scrubbed off of him for the most part, but the dark circles on his face from greasepaint still staining him. Where Furiosa still looks sharp in her civilian clothes, this boy looks frail, his breathing labored.

 

Furiosa lingers in the door, clearly not wanting to come further. Not out of a lack of heart so much as they both know that once upon a time, she could have known this War Boy. He could have been her friend, her companion in Immortan’s sick gang. Maybe could have saved him.

 

It’s Splendid who says, “Mr. Rockatansky, we’re ready.” It’s a fair warning as she lays a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back from looking at the boy. She knows how sensitive he is about touching.

 

Easily, she helps him into the chair, pushing up his sleeve. He thinks about asking about her boy, if she’s happy, if there’s anything she wants or needs as she wraps the tourniquet around his scarred arm. He studies her, how determined she is, how concentrated she looks, surrounded by war fodder by the man who had kept her captive all those years ago.

 

That’s not a strength he has.

 

“Relax,” she says, applying the rubbing alcohol with a practiced swipe. The smell bothers him more than the prick does. He looks up, to try and speak to Furiosa again only to find she’s gone.

 

“There you go,” Splendid finishes, standing up, arranging the bags, watching as the blood starts to flow. This is the hard part now: the wait.

 

A part of him dreads it. Speaking to Splendid is the hardest thing to do, out of all of the Sisters. She reminds him in ways that he’d rather not concentrate on, of Jessie. In others, he’s proud of her, of being able to help her and the others, of being able to watch her grow from a scared if determined woman to a good, hardy nurse in just a few years.

 

It’s a little easier to not look at her, to focus on the kid in front of him. War Boys always looked different: they all had some of the same aspects from the brand Immortan gave them, their shaved heads and the white chalk of decoration and greasepaint beneath the eyes but no War Boy was ever scarred the same, never carried the same weapons. This one’s mouth is scarred up something ugly, like he’d set his mouth to nails, some bits of silver still shining around his mouth.

 

The sight pricks at old memories, at the feeling of hands over his face, tugging him backwards into darkness, of War Boys going to their deaths gleefully, screaming for Immortan.

 

His nails dig into his fist. Deep breath. Deep breath.

 

It takes a good two, nervous minutes for him to finally say, eyes still glued on the boy, trying to get out of memories, “You alrigh’? With all of this?” With War Boys swarming the hall, with her son looking not a bit like Immortan, with long nights like this, with being able to live free and fighting.

 

Splendid shifts, reaching out. “I’m alright.” She grasps his free hand, squeezing. It’s not so scary, her hand warm and small in his. He turns his head to look at her, at the smile on her face. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore. What about you, Max?”

 

He clears his throat, heat rising on his neck still not used to so much contact. He squeezes her hand back and says, “I’m alright.”

  
Living. Not only surviving. 


	4. iv. fixings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Splendid’s shoulders tense, then slump. “It’s up to him now.”

 

The last eight minutes go off without a hitch. Splendid takes care to remove the needle, place the cotton on the puncture site, wrap the tape on his arm, and remove the tourniquet. Max stands, leaning heavily on his good leg, wondering what to say or do. He’s never been good at words, nor gestures. Holding her hand had been big enough for him.

 

The most he can do, is look to the boy in the bed, and ask, “He going to live?”

 

Splendid’s shoulders tense, then slump. “It’s up to him now.”

 

She says nothing about what will happen if this War Boy goes back to Immortan Joe. If he decides to spit at her or try something rash to try to take her back to Immortan Joe (something Max thinks that wouldn’t truly happen. None of them have that strength).

 

He takes one last look at the thin War Boy, mouth set in a line.  There isn’t much hope out there, and he has very little for himself. Hope is a mistake, but fixing things? Fixing things was better than hoping, waiting on someone else to it.

 

With a gruff sound, Max limps out, to get a bite to eat before getting home.

 

When he enters the cafeteria, he’s not all that surprised to see Valkyrie and Furiosa at a table, on the far side. He watches them as he limps his way inside, from Valkyrie’s pinched, kind face, to Furiosa’s slumped shoulders, their hands intertwined at the center of the table.

 

Just seeing how Valkyrie squeezes her hand makes him turn away and hurry along. Just because Furiosa hasn’t said a word to him about it doesn’t mean that he can’t see the plain signs there. Instead, his eyes fix back to the serving area, picking out the snacks as fast as he can.

 

By the time he sits, his leg is protesting. Max grunts, adjusting it, only glancing up once to make sure Valkyrie and Furiosa are still there. No heads bowed this time, but Furiosa’s mechanical hand is wrapped around her coffee cup this time, and Valkyrie is smiling.

 

The granola gets stuck in his teeth, the banana he barely tastes, and the orange juice he barely gets down without protest. The sky doesn’t get much lighter; the sirens, however, get quieter, a few doctors straggling in, talking amongst themselves, snatches of it drifting over: so many of these boys, think Immortan’s at his end, don’t know how long this can last.

 

Max leaves his tray, and doesn’t say a word to Furiosa. The drive back is a blur, the house dull and dark when he enters.

 

He doesn’t try to sleep. Just sinks into the bed, half wishing for the sound of a saxophone or the feeling of Jessie’s fingers on his chest or the sound of Sprog’s gurgling voice. When he finally sleeps, he receives neither: only old memories of pale white hands tugging at him, the sound of a motor revving, the wheezing wet gasp Furiosa made years before, and the dull, familiar sound of a timer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> going to be an easier(ish?) ride here on out. nux is coming up pretty soon, like a chapter or two. slow burns and stuff. also: bonus chapters will be a thing.


	5. v. the big wake up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s awake,” Splendid’s face looks pinched, her arms folded over her chest. “The War Boy in 327.”

“He’s awake,” Splendid’s face looks pinched, her arms folded over her chest. “The War Boy in 327.”

 

It’s the thing she’s been waiting on all these days, for Splendid to say those words.

 

Furiosa can pick out the tension in her neck, in her shoulders, tension she’s always been familiar with since all those years ago when Immortan trusted her to guard her. She isn’t her or anyone else’s guard anymore, just a cop through grit and trial, trying to decide what to do at the news. “He alert? Calling you traitored?”

 

Traiotered was a word that Furiosa had become very tired of in three long, hard years. Hearing it issue from every chalked looking War Boy’s mouth did that to a person, especially when before this, they whispered out Imperator! with awe and wonder.

 

Not that Furiosa ever adored it, ever wore it as anything other than a badge of bravery, of will, of the sheer need to survive.

 

But after so many days of handling injured, dying, defiant War Boys, she hates to hear it, and she knows Splendid probably feels the same even as she shakes her head. “No, he’s actually not saying anything. He let me have his name, though. It’s Nux. Nothing else.”

 

Furiosa’s hand curls against her side, staring at Splendid, teeth on edge. “I need to speak to him about where he was. Not officially.”

 

Splendid bites back what Furiosa knows is one of her talks of pacifism, of not pushing so hard. She doesn’t ask questions. Instead, after a silence she says, “Ten minutes.”

 

“Thank you,” she says, squeezing Splendid’s shoulder.

 

Splendid gives her a smile, steps away, and leaves Furiosa to walk inside of the War Boy’s room. She gives only a cursory knock, before entering, expecting to see him glaring or thrashing or spitting out traitored! already.

 

What she sees instead is a pale, tall boy who is tired, who doesn’t know what to say. The chalk is scrubbed off of his face, the scars on his chest stark, the IV’s still connected. She can tell that it takes effort for him to sit up, to concentrate on her. His discomfort, to her satisfaction, is palpable, his hands fussing on the sheets in fear.

 

Furiosa takes a step in, shutting the door, purposely using the stride she had as an Imperator. She does not speak to him, just watches him, the way he fidgets, the way his mouth seems to push and pull in indecision, the way that he keeps looking at her like he cannot decide what to do. He may be awake, but he’s still tired, still under the tug of pain killers.

 

She takes a seat beside the bed, the chair creaking with her weight, as he finally says, “S’not Vallhalla.” His words are slurred, tired, and Furiosa isn’t surprised when he says, “Imperator?”

 

Definitely must have been one of those  war pups eager to drive the Rig. “I’m not Immortan’s Imperator anymore, boy, any more than you’re a half life now.” She glances at the wound in his side; for all that Splendid thinks he’ll make it, Furiosa still doubts.

 

He cringes, shifts away with an unhappy sound. The exact opposite of most of the war boys. “Don’-- don’t like not being one. Don’ want t’be.”

 

Now that is surprising for her to hear. The reason she’s here pushes forward, as she presses on, trying to keep him to her, “Is that why you weren’t with the raiding party?” His eyes, which had been almost shut, pop back open, frantic. “You weren’t ten blocks away from the Green Place. Did Immortan promise you something else? Life as a new Imperator, the promise of a different kind of glory?”

 

“No,” he shakes his head, pushing up on his elbow, or trying to. He slips in the bed, head moving as much as he can. “I’m mediocre,” the word passes bitterly and clear and the way he turns away from her a moment later, means he didn’t want that to come out of his mouth.

 

And that it was the truth.

 

Furiosa draws back, just as he does. Where he’s suspicious, unhappy, and seemingly coming back to defiant, Furiosa is pleased, some of her fears abated. She stands, only glancing behind once to stay, “If you get out of here, I never want to see you that close the Green Place again. I won’t question you next time.”

 

She opens the door, shuts it with the snap.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back to daily updates. this chapter was just hard to do. i might revise it later but there'll be bonus scenes.


	6. vi: full life.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Capable is better at lying than she’d like to be, even if it was lying by omission. It isn’t because of Immortan Joe; she’d never give him so much credit, not with memories of her as a little girl, lying to get into the cookie jar, or cheating at hide and seek with the little brothers she doesn’t have anymore.
> 
>  
> 
> She just is.

Capable is better at lying than she’d like to be, even if it was lying by omission. It isn’t because of Immortan Joe; she’d never give him so much credit, not with memories of her as a little girl, lying to get into the cookie jar, or cheating at hide and seek with the little brothers she doesn’t have anymore.

 

She just is.

 

When Furiosa had asked, sitting on the edge of her bed, voice rough, “Are you alright?” a few nights ago, when War Boys were spilling on the streets, when she had to sit on her hands to stop them from giving her away, Capable had said, “I’m fine.”

 

(She hadn’t told her that the only reason she felt fine was because she had ran until her heart was pounding in her chest, away from Slit and Nux.)

 

When Furiosa had asked, her eyes burning, “Did you see a War Boy?” Capable had said, “No.”

 

(Only because she knew that Nux didn’t see himself as a War Boy anymore and because she truly hadn’t seen Slit until the last moment. And if she didn’t see all of him, it didn’t count.)

 

When Toast had told her, days ago, her voice as dry as her name, “Splendid’s War Boy woke up. Did you know?” Capable had kept her eyes on her phone and said, “No.”

 

What Toast hadn’t known that Capable had already been to the hospital herself.

 

 

She’d been smart about it, at least, had waited until Splendid came home to sneak over to the hospital. It had been risky, with Toast still suspicious from weeks back (“You got chalk on you.”), and the Dag still glancing at her every now and then, eyes sharp.

 

The bus ride had been bumpy, the hoodie pulled over her head to hide her hair, hands stuffed in her pockets and the name of the room written on the note she’d hastily taken down while listening in on Splendid and Furiosa’s conversation. The air smelled like an oncoming storm when she had walked out, almost tripping over her own feet to get into the hospital.

 

There had been a tight, tense moment when Seeder’s old eyes had wandered over her form, but Capable had remembered to keep walking, to look like she belonged there. Seeder had kept talking, had moved her eyes and now, Capable was in front of the room.

 

Her hand lingered over the knob; she didn’t need anyone to remind her that this was a betrayal, an ill advised action, or that maybe she tried to do too much for a War Boy.

 

She didn’t have to remind herself that there was still time to turn around and leave.

 

Yet she turned the knob of the door anyway, slipped inside the dark room saying, “Nux? It’s Capable.”

 

Like she’d hoped, he’s awake, bright eyes peering brightly from the bed. He looks miserable, when she turns on the lap, long lanky form hooked up to machines, a bandage on his side from his wound, squinting at her, “What’re you doing here?”

 

He sounds like shit, voice rough, still full of that resentment and confusion that’s been growing in him for months now. Not towards her; Capable knows better, as she inches inside, away from the shut door.

 

Nux shifts in the bed heavily as she crosses the room, able to corroborate those bits of stories from Furiosa and Splendid and Max’s sparse words: the scars on his mouth look better without the chalk, the bruises fading from the fight he’d been in that night, the engine scars almost translucent on his skin.

 

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Capable takes a seat beside him, not taking her eyes off of him. He still needs that reminder it seems like, that she was his friend and not one of Immortan’s cattle or Furiosa’s spy or Max’s wife (one of the most absurd conversations she’d ever had with him.) “You can’t say we’re not now.”

 

Nux looks away for a moment, as if processing her words. Capable is sure he remembers what happened, that night, she doesn’t have to spell it out for him again, what he’d done to Slit.

 

“S’pose we are,” he gives a small grin that isn’t like his usually garishly large ones brimming with eagerness and energy, but sincere anyway. She returns it, watching as he sits up. He grimaces as he aligns himself on the pillow better. “The Imperator--” he shakes his head in frustration, “ _Furiosa_ she came askin’, about the Green Place and the Immortan, an’--”

 

“She doesn’t know anything, about that night,” she cuts him off before he can get too worked up, glancing at the door before coming back to him. “She’d have done worse if she had.”

 

He grimaces again, eyes raking over her, looking for any evidence from that night. “An’ you? I tried as best I could, couldn’t see nothing when Slit had me.”

 

Capable smiles, shakes her head. “I’m fine, I promise. It’s not me in the hospital,” all the joking goes out of her voice then. “And I know where I’m going to go tonight. But you-- what are _you_ going to do now?”

 

That is the million dollar question, after all this time.

 

There’s a silence then, longer than ever. She can see his jaw ticking, the way he clenches and unclenches at the sheets. She’s not sure Slit has ever seen him so indecisive, has ever seen Nux on a precipice like this.

 

Capable isn’t like the Dag who prays to any god that will listen. She’s hoping, hoping that this is what finally gets Nux away. That she can finally get some sleep without wondering if Nux will end up on the receiving end of Furiosa’s gun or Max’s car or if she’ll see him bowing at Immortan’s feet again.

 

Nux shrugs then, bony shoulders bolting up and down harsh. “Go back to the Citadel.” The words don’t go with the rest of him; they’re hollowed out, tired like the first time Capable met him in the streets. All that energy before, it seeps right out of him. “Maybe-- maybe try and, I dunno. Go with the other revheads.”

 

“ _Why_?” Her voice is incredulous, angry. “After everything with Slit—”

 

“He didn’t—” Nux stops on his words, looking down, swallowing hard. Capable knows he can’t say that Slit didn’t mean it. They both heard him. Softer, he says, “What do I have left? He took the car. I’m mediocre. If I go back I could beg—”

 

“You’re not a half-life,” her voice is firm, grasping his hand. He never seems to hear her whenever she says this, but she has to try. “You have a _new_ life, a full life that someone gave to you. You don’t have to do what he says, you don’t _deserve_ to die like battle fodder.”

 

Nux goes silent again, closed off. His shoulders slump, his fingers curl in her hand, falls back into that familiar uncertainty that he’s been swimming in ever since he decided not to kill her all those weeks ago.

 

When the silence fills up the room to the point of breaking, she stands up. What more can she do?

 

It isn’t her choice, it’s his.

 

When her fingers touch the knob, she hears him say from the bed, voice shaky and weak, “What am I supposed to do, if I’ve got a new life? If I’m not—If I’m not Immortan’s?”

 

Capable closes her eyes.

 

She’d asked herself the same questions years ago and remembers Max’s gruff voice saying, _Whatever you want to do_. She remembers fumbling for months, remembers having to venture out so uncertainly, nervous, but free.

 

She turns to Nux and says, “Whatever you want to do, Nux.”

 

He fingers the cords on his arms, looks at her, looks back at the covers, swallows and says, “Could—could you help?”

 

She lets go of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're back to max next chapter.


End file.
